


Laundry Day

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim stops by sickbay for a quickie.  Things don’t go quite according to plan.  But when do they ever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

The cheeky little shit got hold of a prescription pad. An actual prescription pad, the kind they used centuries ago. Where he got it, McCoy can’t imagine, and doesn’t really care, though he suspects it’s an interesting story. Maybe, he thinks, as the office door slides shut behind him and he quickly sets the windows to 100% opacity, he’ll get him to tell the story afterward. Jim loves to talk about his exploits, even when he’s so fucked-out he can barely keep his eyes open.

On the pad, which Jim is holding toward him, McCoy can read in the familiar crisp handwriting, _Hot sex with a qualified physician. Repeat ~~hourly~~ ~~every half hour~~ continuously, while symptoms persist._

McCoy rolls his eyes. “You know you can’t write your own prescriptions.”

“I’m the captain,” Jim says with a shrug. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Uh-huh. Well, fortunately for you, Doctor G’halkt” – damn, he almost said it correctly that time – “is a qualified physician, and she’s just coming on-duty now.”

Jim makes a face. “I don’t think she can help me with this particular problem. The eyes in the back of her head would make things interesting, and I can’t say I’ve never fantasized about girls with antennae, but I don’t know about the exoskeleton. I’m not even sure where her genitalia _are_.”

“Like that ever stopped you.”

“And anyway,” Jim continues, ignoring the interjection, “you’re my primary physician.”

“Lucky me.”

“Besides,” says Jim, tossing the pad onto McCoy’s desk with a casual flick of his wrist, “I’m in the mood for cock.”

Suddenly there’s a lot less air in the room, and what little remains is noticeably warmer.

“I’m in the mood for your cock,” says Jim, advancing until he and McCoy are chest to chest. Jim’s lips are soft and dry against the shell of his ear. “You have no idea how boring it is, sitting up there on the bridge, watching the stars, listening to Sulu and Chekov play I Spy. For the past two hours, all I’ve been able to think about is your cock, and what I want to do with it.” He pulls back slightly and gives McCoy’s throat a broad sweep with his tongue. In his thick socks and boots, McCoy’s toes actually curl.

“Yeah?” he chokes.

“Yeah,” says Jim. He shifts again, and rubs against McCoy’s thigh. McCoy can feel his erection through the layers of their uniforms. “D’you have any idea how hard it is, hiding a hard-on when you’re sitting in the middle of the fucking bridge? I couldn’t get up and leave until everyone’s back was turned. I think Uhura knew. She knows everything.”

“She knows when you have filth on the brain. It comes off you like radio waves. ‘Nuff about your cock. Talk to me about mine.” He grabs Jim’s wrist, pushing his hand down to where it can do some good.

“Wanna feel your cock in my hand,” Jim whispers, palming him roughly through his pants. McCoy’s suddenly lightheaded as the blood rushes from his extremities to meet that warm, cupped palm. “You’re already hard for me,” Jim observes, like it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. “Want you in my mouth. Wanna lick you up and down, ‘til you can’t think about anything else. ‘Til you can’t think, period. Think I’ll bend you back across your desk first. Don’t worry, I won’t mess up your paperwork,” he adds with a smirk as McCoy opens his mouth, unwittingly cutting off a moan, not a protest. Deftly unzipping McCoy’s fly and nudging his fingers inside, he continues: “Gonna lick you and tongue you and suck on you ‘til your eyes roll back in your head. But I won’t let you come until I’m the one spread across your desk. ‘Til I’ve got your dick up my—”

Growling low in his throat, McCoy shuts him up with a kiss that’s just this side of ferocious. It’s going to leave bruises. As are his hands, which grab at Jim’s waist, simultaneously trying to tug him closer and shove him backward in the direction of the desk. Jim laughs against his mouth as their ankles get tangled and they stumble. The room tilts, but McCoy manages to get an arm out in time to brace them. Then everything goes a bit hazy.

McCoy’s aware of his own body – of his palms skimming over cotton, which is soon rucked up or pushed aside so he can get at the heated skin underneath. Of his teeth closing gently over Jim’s bottom lip, his earlobe, his nipples. Of his tongue lapping soothingly at each minor wound. He’s _hyper_ -aware of Jim’s hands and lips, the thrum of his heartbeat and the insistent press of his erection.

This is what he needs, McCoy thinks, after a long, dull day. This cleansing abandon, this sloppy, greedy physicality. Jim whispering the most gorgeous filth into his ear, peeling away his layers of clothing until he’s standing there in just his boxers. That sizzling blue gaze raking him from top to bottom.

Then suddenly – nothing.

“Don’t stop,” McCoy insists in this keen that doesn’t sound like it could possibly have come from his own throat. “What the fuck are you—”

But Jim hasn’t just stopped touching him. He’s stumbling backward, head bowed, clutching at his stomach. He looks like he’s having convulsions, and for a second McCoy goes ice cold with fear. But then Jim lifts his head, and his face is contorted, not with pain, but helpless laughter. Tears stream down his cheeks. Actual goddamn tears.

“ _What_?” McCoy demands, starting toward him, his movements made awkward by his confusion and the heavy ache of his arousal. “For fuck’s sake, Jim—”

Jim points and McCoy looks down at himself.

Oh, damn it all to hell.

  


“They were a gift,” he snarls, while Jim splutters. He doesn’t even know what he’s defending – certainly not his dignity, since he has none at the moment. “Back when I was doing my residency, someone— It’s laundry day. They were all I had to wear. I didn’t know you were going to come down here and start mauling—”

Jim collapses so quickly that there’s _no_ way McCoy could’ve caught him. One second he’s on his feet, curled over his stomach. The next, he’s sprawling. He lands hard, too, his tailbone meeting the thinly carpeted floor with a dull thud, his head whacking hard against the edge of McCoy’s desk. The sound reverberates in the small room, and for a moment they just blink at each other, the merriment fading from the blue eyes, which begin to widen with pain.

“Damnit.”

McCoy is on Jim an instant later, feeling him all over gently, while Jim just says, “Ow, _ow_ ,” in a mournful little tone.

Nothing’s fractured, thank God, but the kid’s gonna have a couple of nasty bruises, if not a concussion, and he’s _not_ going to be having sex across anyone’s desk for a good twenty-four hours.

Which means McCoy isn’t fucking anyone across his desk for a good twenty-four hours.

Damnit, damnit.

Using the edge of the desk, he levers himself to his feet and stumbles out of the office. Chapel’s on duty, which is a small blessing; she’ll tease him mercilessly, but she won’t tattle. He hopes. When she sees him, her eyes go wide and she claps a hand to her mouth.

“I need a coldpack,” he says, like he isn’t still half-hard and wearing nothing but boxers covered in yellow smiley faces.

“I’ll say you do,” Chapel says from behind her hand. Alerted by their voices, Doctor G’halkt pokes her head out from behind one of the curtained beds. Her multi-faceted eyes glow with a rainbow light and she clicks something appreciative before ducking back out of sight.

“Oh, for...” McCoy brushes past Chapel, gets the coldpack from the cabinet himself, and stomps back to his office.

Jim’s still on the floor, head lolling against the desk. A dazed smile plays across his face, and his eyes are half-shadowed by his lashes. He hisses and makes a face when McCoy drops to his side and, supporting his shoulders, holds the coldpack against the back of his skull.

In a plaintive voice, he says, “Those are officially my least favorite of your underwear. ‘N fact, they’re the worst underwear in the history of the universe. Just so you know. Better hide ‘em. Or one of these days…”

“You’ll what?” McCoy asks, lips quirking despite – well, everything. “Toss them out the airlock?”

“Don’t wanna pollute space. Gonna burn ‘em.”

“Just so long as I’m not wearing them when you do.”

Jim gives him a narrow look, then winces as McCoy starts to pry him away from the desk and haul him to his feet. He stumbles against McCoy, who guides him to the chair behind the desk and makes him sit.

“Hold this,” McCoy says, taking Jim’s hand and curling his fingers around the coldpack.

As Jim complies with rather uncharacteristic meekness, McCoy opens a drawer and finds a pen, an old fashioned one that uses ink. Then he picks up the abandoned prescription pad, tears off the top page, and writes on the next one, _Blowjobs. ~~While symptoms~~ On demand._

He considers adding _until justice is served._ While he chews thoughtfully on the end of the pen, Jim cranes his neck and looks to see what he’s writing. “I approve,” he says with a glimmer of his customary smugness.

McCoy raises an eyebrow. “Good to know. But, just so we’re clear, darlin’, this prescription’s for _me_ , and you’re filling it.”

1/12/10


End file.
